Other topics were discussed at random: ‘Wren’s Gothic towers had more of the Gothic spirit than those of Gilbert Scott’; ‘Elliott [Arthur Elliott, politician] lamented the fall of the English Constitution, the House of Lords and (very near) the House of Commons’; ‘Lord Crewe said Ferdinand of Bulgaria was a good botanist and naturalist in general. Parry said that John Sebastian Bach’s music is admired in Spain even by shepherds in Catalonia’; ‘Vinogradoff talked to me about the Statute of Mortmain’. Ninety years later, I would say that the talk is not dissimilar, though it may be a little less learned.
The Literary Society has usually kept the noiseless tenor of its way (I hope that is a more accurate quotation from Gray than Miss Austen’s), but there was a row when the current president, Lord Armstrong, was proposed for an appointment in 2004. Sir Peregrine Worsthorne, the master of controversy, complained that Armstrong’s only connection with literature was his effort, when Cabinet secretary, to suppress it. Armstrong had tried to prevent the publication of Peter Wright’s memoir Spycatcher. Worsthorne lost his battle, and later resigned his membership, pleading the high cost of the dinners. The novelist Robert Harris resigned on the Armstrong issue. It was a great pity to lose these members, but they were in the wrong. Spycatcher was not literature, and besides, throughout its 200 years, the Literary Society has mixed its membership. This has probably made it more fun than if it had stuck to scribblers alone.
One night, after a Literary Society dinner, Norman Moore strolled as far as Park Lane with some fellow members on his way home. They parted cheerfully: ‘I left there three well-read, delightful men.’ If there is any point of the society, it is to find well-read, delightful men — and now women too — and bring them together.
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